Calvin's Model
by Zamael
Summary: Wherein I have the opportunity to observe a truly marvelous young painter in his work, and catch an eyeful of the world through his eyes.


I could not, with a honest face, call myself as much of an artist. I _can_ draw, a little, perhaps - but by no means enough to make any sort of a living out of it, or to have my works acknowledged by anyone. Having little patience to learn, and perhaps accounting a little bit on laziness as well, I never developed the skill any more than the barest of basics, and could not really do anything with it. I ended up as a writer, instead - one of those truly pretentious ones, that write like people did a century ago or earlier - a profession much easier to learn, and much less stimulating for one's mind and imagination.

This is, I think, the core reason to why I could not see the way a truly gifted artist could, and why I was so very shocked and surprised by an experience several months ago, enough so that it prompted me to pick up painting once more, in an attempt to develop a comparable skill to this prodigious young man - although I very much doubt I could ever really reach his level, for he deserves every word of praise I have so far given of him, and more. He has since disappeared from public, as other lovers of art reading this have already heard, only bringing out and introducing his latest batch of works before vanishing as mysteriously as he had arrived. But I had the privilege of seeing them before the others did, watch him paint them to the end, and, perhaps, catch the tiniest of glimpses to the way his eye perceives our world.

Being a follower of arts, I had of course been deeply moved by his works ever since they first appeared to the galleries, some years ago. Animals and landscapes, mostly, both mundane and fantastic, featuring creatures such as tigers and dinosaurs, but also strange alien creatures, in jungles and savannas, but sometimes barren rocky landscapes out of this world, the skies full of moons and stars. Perhaps nothing new in this day and era, and looking rather odd when presented in the middle of all the modern art and other abstract weirdness, but what it lost in originality, it more than made up in execution: each and every painting was incredibly realistic, almost like a photograph, nay, more than that: one could feel like stepping right into the landscape, and conversely, the animals and beasts almost threatened to leap _out_ and devour the viewer.

The artist himself appeared reclusive, even isolated, not being seen much in public and appearing to prefer secluding himself away from others. He could have easily found much more recognition and fame, were he just to move out more, yet he did not. I never learned the reasons for such behavior, and suppose it remains a mystery, what with him having apparently chosen to do so for good. (I have been told he picked up drawing comics, but my sources are fairly unreliable and it has been nigh impossible to confirm or debunk the claim.)

So, considering both his artistic genius and how little he wished to see people, I was naturally thrilled to have been offered an opportunity to meet him in the flesh, in his own home at that, and see him work on and finish some of his latest projects. The combination of him appearing to enjoy what I have written, myself purchasing several of his works to my own collection, as well as making some donations to the welfare of animals and nature, all seemed to endear me for him enough to arrange a meeting, to count me among those very rare and privileged to learn more of the man than the public. Instructions were given on how I could reach his house, appropriately enough in the countryside, away from the city, where I drove with my car on the forenoon scheduled.

This was a heavily forested area, with hills and hiding places for children in abundance, and very little roads: even with the instructions I was given, I got lost for a while as I took the wrong turn from one of the very few crossroads in the area. An untamed land, not the sort you would have expected to find from America at this time and era: almost nostalgic, reminding me of the vast jungles of my own childhood - which, in retrospect, had never been that huge at all. It was easy to lose myself into the scenery, but I nonetheless managed to dislodge myself from it and move on, albeit an hour or so late.

The house itself was but a small cottage, largely covered by trees until I was very close. The artist must have been quite rich from his success, but none of it showed here: he may as well have been a poor old hermit, by the looks of things. My host was waiting for me out in the yard, apparently concerned of me being late and whether I had gotten lost: he was a young man, no older than twenty years at most, with a short, blonde hair, glasses, and a warm smile. I was let out of the car and guided to the front step of his house, the building just as unassuming from the other side as it had from what I had seen of it already.

"You have no idea what this means to me, Mr.-", I began as I was showed indoors, but he interrupted before I could go on any further.

"Please, just call me Calvin. There is no need to be so formal all the time: I rather dislike it." And even then he smiled, while I was given the first look inside his house, most of which was quite humble, and so much less than he could afford or deserve, though he did not seem to mind. After I expressed interest in seeing some of his works-in-progress, and perhaps even him painting live, he directed me to his atelier, which was very different from the rest of the house, being closer to a jungle with all the potted plants. Even weirder, there were several full tubs of water here and there, and many plushie animals of varying species. It would not have looked much like a painter's workshop at all, if not for all the, well, paintings: these were all turned away from the entrance and, as I was told, would not be seen by anyone, myself included, until they were ready.

"I have several nearly finished, though, so if you let me work in peace, you may yet see them today anyway!" As I was seated, he produced a small plushie tiger from up a shelf, and placed it near me on a stand, next to a couple plants.

"Uh, what is that all about?", I obviously inquired, being quite frankly rather perplexed about all this.

"This is Hobbes," he stated matter-of-factly, introducing me to the tiger. "He is my model for today."

"Your... model?"

"Yep!" He has a nigh-maniacal grin on his face when this was stated. I simply assured myself that all artists were eccentric, and brushed it off.

This was only the beginning of the man's strange quirks, however. After placing "Hobbes", he drew all the drapes away, letting much more light into the room, and a nice forest view. To my knowledge, he had never drawn any forests, which was odd, seeing how he lived in the middle of them: I brought this up, and the response was, essentially, "Oh, I only live in a forest when I choose to. Watch..."

And I watched as he spread his arms wide and, very enthusiastically, shouted out of the window: "KAZAM!" To my eye, absolutely nothing had changed, but he seemed satisfied enough nonetheless, and returned to behind his paintings, getting to work.

And so the day went by, with him apparently painting a children's toy, me sitting next to it, innocently watching him create. It was a surreal experience, to be sure: I was still in a bit of a fanboyish daze, and indeed I could not say I did not enjoy this, but on the other hand, well... all these plushies. He even often corrected his tiger model's "stance," or "expression," instructing him to pick up a different position or roar or whatnot, occasionally exclaiming compliments of a perfect impression. Naturally, the thing held perfectly still nonetheless.

He was otherwise quite a pleasant person, though, happily answering any questions I might have had, as well as asking many of his own. We established many facts about the lives, and particularly childhoods, of each other: it was decided that both had had a rather happy youth, with a loving family, and many forests to hide and play in - although neither had also realized how good we had back then, and thought that our parents and peers misunderstood us, but what child hadn't thought that?

He offered me lunch as well, later in the afternoon, at the patio outside. It was still a very nice and warm day, so we thought we would eat there and listen to the birds singing and other voices of the nature. The food consisted of simple soup and sandwiches: he regretted to inform me that he was not much of a chef himself, and did not even eat that much when he did not have guests, as he was rather busy with his art. I asked him why he did not hire someone to make him food, but the answer - "I just prefer to live alone." - was more or less expected before it even came out.

"Hmm..." Then at one point he went silent, briefly, and simply looked at me with a critical eye, then at Hobbes, then me again, and his painting. "Hey, would you mind if I painted you here as well? I think you would fit in nicely with what I have right now."

"What? R-really?" This was an entirely unexpected development, and one that had my heart leap into throat in excitenment. I was still on the opinion that this man's art would be remembered for centuries, and being immortalized into one, even if it was with a plushie tiger, would be, for me, a dream come true. "I... I would be honoured! Thank you!"

My initial excitenment had mostly died off hours ago, but now it all jolted back awake as if it had had an electric shock, as I giddily watched Calvin work on a particular painting, presumably adding me in. He had been doing this one for the last couple hours, not touching the others: I presumed he had finished them already by now. Strangely enough, he was quite content with me simply sitting on the chair, not asking me to change my position or even expression. Perhaps he was drawing me holding a plushie? But then why was not Hobbes on my lap? I voiced these questions, but he smiled mysteriously and said that this was fine, that there was no need to bother myself.

It was evening, the sun having begun to set, when he at last put his brush away, smiling triumphantly. "There! All finished." I had been dozing off a little, but once again, I was instantly revitalized by these words and bounced up. "May I see them now?", I asked, perhaps making myself sound just a little bit too eager.

"Oh, by all means!" As I moved on towards the works, he himself headed off to another room. "Try and not touch them: the paint is still wet. I'll go and do us some dinner."

If there was a moment in my life when I had been more excited than now (and to be fair, I probably had, when I had been just a child and excited about everything), I could not remember a single instance. I was quite certain any true lover of arts would have felt the exact same sensation, put in the situation I was in, and this was not just me being an overeager fanboy. Even if the artwork I would soon see was me along with a small tiger toy, as well as some buckets of water and potted plants: all a little bit of an odd choice for Calvin, but perhaps he had decided to try out some new things?

I circled around to get a good look at the paintings, and proceeded to see something very different from what I had expected, so incredibly unreal. I stared at them for the entire half an hour Calvin spent in the kitchen, and by the time he returned and asked me what I thought of them, I had decided that yes, I would once again pick up painting.

"They're, uh... they are amazing. Perfect." I could answer nothing but the truth. It would probably have been physically impossible to me to answer nothing but the truth. He seemed genuinely happy about it, though, like no one had ever complimented his art before - which was very much not true, of course.

The dinner was had, during which we discussed his works in greater detail: the lighting, the contrast, the perspective, and other words and meanings of art that had, strangely, lost their purpose to me over the last hour. There was little to no way I could have described them in such terms: they were simply there, and they were perfect.

I do not usually succumb into the use of such praise of anyone - not even Calvin, before that day. Perhaps I indeed had gone a little insane there? Perhaps that is what is needed to be a great painter?

Whatever it was, as I finally bid him farewell and walked back to my car, I considered the exchange well worth it. I was, I think, one of the very last people who saw Calvin in public before his mysterious disappearance, and I cannot put in words what kind of a genius the world of art lost in him. I do not think I would be able to replace him, even after decades, and I rather doubt anyone else could either - but I will try, at least in order to tap to that source of wonder and fantasy he utilized daily. I can see why he painted now. I can see why anyone would.

I saw no potted plants, tubs of water, nor forested landscapes. I saw a vast, endless jungle, ancient and mighty. I saw an ocean, glistening in moonlight, reaching beyond horizon. And I saw the great night sky, its moons, nebulae, and stars. I saw them, and swore I could reach out and into them, even though the paint was still wet on the canvas (I did not try, but I was tempted to). I almost heard the night voices in the jungle, the roar of the sea... smelled the salt, felt the wind in my face.

And I saw myself.

A bold explorer in the jungle, with a rifle in his hand, adventurer's outfit on him, and a brave look on his face... yet blissfully unaware of the mighty beast of the wild, the tiger, stalking him from beneath the bushes. Indeed, I could barely see it myself either, not until looking for it, and had found myself screaming audibly when I finally located it - so real did it look!

I heard the roar of the tiger, and briefly, just briefly, saw the jungle around me, the ocean in front of me, and the night sky above me. I saw the world like Calvin did. But it was a mere fleeting moment, and passed much faster than I might have hoped it to. And yet the roar endured, much longer than I would certainly have hoped.

Months later, even as I have tried to discover that state of mind, I still hear that damn tiger.


End file.
